


Reflect

by Lostkid



Category: Markiplier (RPF), Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, POV Second Person, except me cause i love writing angst, no one is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12427170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostkid/pseuds/Lostkid
Summary: Being trapped for all eternity gives you a lot of time to think about what you've done.





	Reflect

**Author's Note:**

> This fic links in with my previous WKM one (Echoes), but it's not essential to have read it to understand this one. Just shows a different perspective.

For the first few hours you think it’s a joke, tracing the cracks in the mirror for the sixth time. It’d gotten repetitive after the second time but you find it comforting. Something warm radiates from the shards, something under the static, and you feel like breaking through the mirror to reach it. But an anxiety holds you back. The worry that you won’t be able to escape otherwise, that Celine and Damien (or just Damien? You were unsure how Celine’s powers had worked), when they return, will need the mirror to save you. When the joke’s over.

After the fifteenth time, it stops feeling so comforting.

It’s a few days before you start worrying whether you were left there by accident. You remember sharing their body, but not being able to seperate everyone’s thoughts from each other. That must be it, you think; they just hadn’t noticed you were gone. It had been awfully busy in that head; all that hatred and hurt. None of it yours, however, and you wonder if that’s a problem; what they’ll both do in a body set on one goal of revenge.

 

     "Hello? Anyone?!” You yell, and your voice trembles but you don’t know why. “Can you hear me? Please! Damien! Celine!”

 

You shout for everyone, _anyone_ who could possibly hear you, dead or alive. You don’t know what you’d class yourself as by this point.

You found within the first day that you can walk around the mansion; an odd, flipped version where everything is greyer. Hell, you can walk out on the grounds and everything. But it hurts. A dull pain in your neck, which won’t go away until you return to the foyer where the mirror waits. It didn’t bother you too much at first, but it seems to get worse every time you wander. And you’re acutely aware of the crookedness of the top of your spine. It was a high balcony, after all.

Speaking of the balcony, you saw him, the Colonel, consistently throughout the first night. Like a spirit, you heard his cries, emulating your own pleas.

 

     “Celine! Damien! Come on, come out now! This isn’t funny anymore!”

 

You still see and hear him, translucent blurs stumbling about, but clear and whole in any of the mirrors, like doors to a reality you’d rather ignore. You want to reach out, to tell the Colonel that it’s okay, that Damien and Celine are alright, but you can’t, and they aren’t. You wonder why you never see them on your side, whether they even have a reflection, or if they left that behind; left you behind. Everyone you see looks like a ghost on your side, but it doesn’t bother you since people never visit anymore; there’s no one on the real side of the mirror.

That’s a lie. At the end of the first week (you keep track using the house’s grandfather clock and by scratching tally marks into the table), some policemen and reporters show up, catching your attention. The policemen look bored, even annoyed, at the enthusiastic commentary of the reporters, and leave as quickly as they entered. You try to reach out through the reflection of the window, and for a moment, you think that one of the reporters catches your eye. But then it all crumbles as they careen away, and you’re left alone again. The butler comes back after what you think must be months, but only once. You don’t follow him anywhere, but through a window you see him speaking to the groundskeeper, and picking some red flowers from the garden. You notice a ring on his finger. It hurts when you breathe, trying not to think about the world moving on without you. It's only the butler, you think, no one important. But he was kind. And you miss that. You could swear that the groundskeeper can see you; he stares at the house for long periods, but never comes near. You don't blame him. 

Unless your marks on the table are wrong (which they could be; time seems to move differently for you on this side of the mirror), the Colonel seems to revisit the house every six days. He looks different every time, and the new neon of his outfit -even in its translucent, reflected form- almost hurts your eyes, like a beacon within the greys of the mansion. He never seems to look in any mirrors, no matter how long you follow him, no matter how hard you wish for someone, _anyone_ to see you. 

 

     “Celine! My darling, where are you?”

 

He sings these days, sounding almost joyful. But you can still hear the cracking in his voice. Your existence is filled with cracking these days, whether it’s your fading voice, the mirrors (on your fourth day, you’d found that you could break them, and didn’t even hesitate), or your own goddamn neck. You stop counting the days after a while; the table has run out of room to scratch, and so have the walls around the foyer. You could stray further into the house, to ruin those walls too, but the pain in your neck and stomach seems to have gotten worse over the days (months? Years?), making it extremely difficult. You’re just reminded of the gunshot, the fall. It was just an accident. You still hear the crack when you look up at the balcony, but you’ve stopped wincing at it.

By the time _they_  visit, you know it must've been years. You’ve memorised the layout of the house, counted every candle, searched through every possible secret, and tried countless times to burn the place down. You found out early on that you couldn’t topple the candles or bulbs, but as they never seem to extinguish, you keep trying over and over again, and your hand seems to burn every time. You want the damned place to disappear, but you’re not sure if you would disappear with it.

The Colonel visits that day as well, which you had expected. You greet him, as always, expecting and receiving no reply. You follow his translucent form for a while, mouthing along to his memorised shouts, and trying to capture his attention in any nearby reflections. The pain in the top of your spine starts to grow, and you ignore it, but it’s the accidental glance at the Colonel‘s gun that makes your breath hitch, and suddenly you’re back on the foyer's table before your mirror, knees drawn to your chest and holding your stomach like a child. You swear you can still feel the bleeding wound. 

The pain feels like nothing after what feels like hours, as you look up, and are greeted with their smirk.

You know it wasn’t a joke. Or an accident.

 

     “Don’t look at me like that,”

 

You can’t help it. They left you, they abandoned you and didn’t come back for years. You feel the world around you distort as your vision fills with red and blue.

 

     “I did you a favour.”

 

No. They didn’t. You touch your neck as you see him crack his; a painful twinge neither of you escaped from, it seems.

Damien was your friend, you thought Celine was your ally. This isn’t them, at least, not any more. You sigh as you stand up and walk away, unable to see their reflection in your world but shivering as you walk across the same spot where they stand. You barely even notice that the pain in your neck has returned, even while remaining right in front of the mirror.

You were foolish. You were naive.

You can hear the Colonel humming in the lounge as you curiously lead through the Detective’s notes, trying to distract yourself. You’d read them before, all of them, countless times. But you like to study his theories, his rambles; how much easier it would’ve been if it had only been a simple murder that had happened that weekend. You also feel as though _someone_ should read them, as the Detective’s corpse upstairs certainly isn't going to. You chose to ignore it after the first day. You hate that balcony anyway.

You hear cracking footsteps outside your door, but choose not to turn. You know who it is. 

 

     “D-Damien? You…I knew it!” You close your eyes as you hear the distorted voices outside your door, feeling discomfort in the pit of your stomach. “I didn’t hurt anyone! What a…a good joke! You…you…”

 

They wouldn’t and _didn’t_ come back for _you_ , you know that. You’d known it for years, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

You wonder if it was because Damien and Celine knew what you did. For Mark. But it wasn’t really Mark’s idea, was it?

It was just a simple party.

Just a simple favour.

Just a simple murder.

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> Yeah I know that it’s been confirmed who ACTUALLY killed Mark, but I wrote this before the charity stream where he confirmed it was Wilford, so... 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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